


A Study in Lincoln Green

by grassle



Series: My Big Fat Medieval AU [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 21:30:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8029537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grassle/pseuds/grassle
Summary: Fill of this prompthttp://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?thread=43892620#t43892620Sir John, back from the Crusades, wounded and exhausted and disillusioned with life, hides out in his boyfriend Sheriff Lestrade's manor, drifting through his days. Lestrade hooks him up with barmy young lord Sherlock, who wanders over the county solving crimes, making a nuisance of himself, and nearly getting burned at the stake by pissed-off villagers who think he is a) a witch or b) just really annoying and superior.John gets a new lease of life, Sherlock gets a bodyguard who thinks he's brilliant, and Lestrade can get some peace and quiet to get his bloody job done, thank you very much.





	1. A Study in Lincoln Green – Verily, it beginneth

**Author's Note:**

> Hey nonny nonny! It’s anachronotastic! Just an excuse to cobble a string of Medievalicious puns together.

“Egads, Little John, I wouldst thou not walketh up and down and roundeth and about the manor all day. Forsooth, I grow footsore merely to see thee!” Sheriff Lestrade made a grab for the parchments he was working on and which Little John – though not so little if his three-counties reputation had it aright; Sheriff Lestrade had yet to determine – had rustled off the table in the Great Hall in his lopsided but agitated striding.

“Erm, why are you talking like that?”

Lestrade paused. “Verily, I knoweth not.”

“Then don’t. It’s silly.” Little John heaved another sigh, and by the wounds of Christ, Sheriff Lestrade, making another dive for his scrolls, sorely wanted to help him.

“Are thou not scrivening at thy tale, as thy healer would have thee? Sorry. I’ll stop. It’s just all the cool Normans are doing it, and once you start... Aren’t you writing about what you went through? I have spare papyrus and ink aplenty. Help yourself. Wouldst thou I were to hone – would you like me to sharpen a quill for you?”

“Writing? I’m no monk, toiling away at an illuminated manuscript! I’m a man of action! Or I was. Damn Maesteg!”

For John, his not overly tall, blond friend, a proud warrior and loyal servant of his king, had come unscathed through the length and breadth of the Third Crusade, only to succumb to injury in South Wales. (Well, there’s no place throughout all three Crusades with a similar enough sounding name. Believe me. I’ve looked.)

Lestrade hated the Welsh for what they’d done to his John. He made sure he was extra awful to any lawbreaker, be he poacher, pilferer or peddler, with a Welsh-sounding name. Only yesterday he’d clapped a man called Llewelyn ap Dafydd in the stocks for speaking in tongues on the King’s highway. Well, he’d had a funny accent, look you. Lestrade started to make a laborious pen and ink note to pelt said taffy with rotten fruit, gave it up, and instead drew a quick picture of himself holding a soft round object in each hand, standing in front of a man kneeling helplessly before him. That would serve to remind him.

“Ignore me and my lamentations, I prithee, Sheriff Lestrade. Pray, go on with your duties. Isn’t it about time for you to give audience, to hear the petitions and grievances of the local people?” John gestured to the huge doors with his cane.

By Christ’s blue eyes, it was as well. The stewards entered, straightening up his desk on its raised dais, refilling his ale tankard and his inkwell. If that fool-born Dimmock got them the wrong way around again, he’d… But it was almost time. And that meant only one thing. But actually, if there was one person who could rouse his John from his despondency, it was Him and He would be due about now. So Sheriff Lestrade did what any right-thinking, God-fearing man in his position would: he grabbed his goblet, called an excuse over his shoulder, and scarpered.

Scant seconds later he’d ascended to the minstrel’s gallery, where he was able to peep through the wooden slats. He saw John looking all around, his face adorably bewildered. Suddenly there was an enormous crash, the big doors were flung open, and a man entered. Entered and just stood there for a minute, flatteringly lit by a stonking great beam of sunlight. Tall, thin, with dark curly hair, he was dressed in the longest Frankish style mantle, thick and heavy with a fur lining, and which fastened centrally down the length of his long frame instead of being gathered up on one shoulder. An otter-skin tippet dyed blue wrapped around his neck instead of hanging loose. Really tight-fitting chausses, and shoes with pointed toes could be seen under the long cloak.

“Lestrade!” he yelled in haughty tones. “I know thou art nigh, thou portly, swag-bellied hedge-badger! I can smell thee. Cheap ink, cheap ale, and desperation. Come hither!”

“Look, I know not who you are, sirrah,” began John, staring at the stranger, “but you have to wait your turn. There are a lot of petitioners to see –”

“Damascus or Antioch?” inquired the man in a low purr, turning his blue-grey gaze on John. His smooth baritone made the final syllable of the last word fall into a click.

“I’m sorry?”

“Damascus or Antioch?” He did the drop-click thing again.

“Antioch. How –”

“And quite a while since you’ve exercised your gifts as a physician. I hope the king made good use of your twin skills.”

“How could you poss –”

“I know you’re a soldier, recently returned from the Crusades. The Third Crusade, known as the Kings’ Crusade. The snobby Crusade. The King only took the best, the highly trained multi-taskers. Bowmen/pastry chefs. Navigators/artists. Armourers/minstrels. But you… Your feet are narrow, unused to walking, and your arm and shoulder muscles developed. So knight it is then. Yet your poultice and liniment are unusual blends, unique. Your bandages are strapped in a new way, one I haven’t seen before, one that passes for cross-gartering. Yet you had to sell your palfrey on your return journey, so it’s unlikely you have your own healer with you. It’s your own work, then. So physician it is. Physician /warrior, in fact. A veritable paradox.”

John was just staring now. Sherlock rested both forefingers against his mouth, then pointed them towards John.

“There’s more. Your brother Harry drank away the family fortune whilst you were away. You’re staying here because the Sheriff, your friend, has the hots for you. He’s worried about you, consults daily with his apothecary because you’re limp. There’s no problem – you’re just not interested.” This was delivered with a sarky little smile.

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably in his hiding place. Those possets and tinctures were for John’s own good, zounds!

“And there are no petitioners; I’ve dismissed all the Sir Moan-a-lots and Lady Whine-a-lots delivering their dull plaints about the dreadful state of the ducking stool, or how their neighbour’s pig ate their acorns, and that the village idiot has got into the dung heap again. I need to talk to Lestrade about the murders.”

“ _Murders?_ ”

“You’ve read the trivia.”

“Those…journeyers, who fell into fatal swoons at the sheer beauty of the shire on seeing it for the first time?”

“Is that how he’s handling it? Telling us we’re safe, if we don’t die of rapture? Ridiculous. Yes, the murder of travellers, in different parts of the county, places they had no reason to be in. There’s a new one, just today. They all ingested the same poison. I performed the haruspicy myself.”

“Sorry, you _read the entrails_?”

“Yes, and conducted the hydromancy.”

“You _divined by scrying in water_?”

“Yes. I also sniffed their vomit. But that was for a…private reason. Well. I mustn’t get sidetracked.”

“That’s wondrous! Oracular! Quite, quite wondrous!” exclaimed John

“That’s…not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off. They usually add ‘thou lanky git’ on the end too.”

“Who _are_ you? What do you _do_?” John burst out.

“Lord Sherlock of Holmes. Consulting alchemist. The only one in the county.”

“What…”

“It means when the sheriff’s addledwitted, which is always, he calls me. Talking of which, Lestrade, I see the thither, concealing thy grizzled head! I need a help meet for my investigation, and not just any old clodpated manorial guard you promoted from scullion because he ‘pleased’ thee.”

“Why, yes, I’m up here, checking the… Lord Sherlock, this is Lord John. Wat’s son. And see, John? He talks like that too!” called down Lestrade.

“Yeah, but it’s cool when he does it!” shouted back John.

“Thou knowest thou doth say that out loud?” enquired Sherlock.

“Sorry, I’ll shut up.”

“No, ’tis fine.”

“’Tis all fine.”

And the pair shared a Look and a Grin. It looked most heinous on my Lord Sherlock, Lestrade decided, hurrying from his perch.

“Sherlock, I’ve had you banished from the manor. Again. How d’you even get in here, anyway?” Lestrade joined them and stood between them.

“I have my own resources, my own contacts –”

“Lord Sherlock! You made it!” squeaked a voice behind them, and Lady Molly-Anne joined them, wearing a clean dress and with her pale face freshly painted. “I’ll call for mead and confits and –”

“Sadly, wench, I must hie,” said Sherlock. “Urgent business awaits.”

“I can help! You need a helper; I’m convent-reared and –”

“Boys only, maiden,” replied Sherlock. “And don’t try garbing thyself as a lad again.”

“God, no,” and “Yeah, it’s embarrassing,” added John and Lestrade. Lady Molly-Anne flounced off.

“Where’s this new corpse, then?” asked Lestrade.

“In the copse. The corpse is in the copse.”

“You left the carcass in the clearing? You didn’t bring the deceased to the demesne?”

“I left the body in the bushes, yes.”

“I can’t believe you left the stiff in the shrubs, Lord Sherlock.”

“The bones are fine among the branches, Sheriff Lestrade.”

“A mort, left in the mosses.”

“The remains are well among the rhododendrons.”

“But the departed has been left to the deer!”

“No, the carrion is concealed by the canopies! Besides, I have a few of the local younglings guarding it.”

“Not that gang of rapscallions, the Bakerstreete Irregulars? Sherlock, I wish thou would not consort with those wastrel varlets! It ill befits thy station. They’re naught but a troupe of degenerate ne’er-do-wells who swill ale, paint their faces, dress in strange garb, and peddle their arses in the upstairs rooms of The Doxy and Strumpet, where they perform unspeakable acts with prices ranging from a cut farthing to a groat, depending on the nature of said…”

Lestrade became aware of the silence, in which all eyes were staring at him.

“So I’ve heard,” he finished weakly. “In my capacity as reeve. Come. Let’s away.” He practically ran from the Hall.

“Not in a sheriff’s coach. I’ll be right behind,” called Sherlock. He turned to John. “Did I get aught amiss?”

“Sister. Harry’s my sister. Not my brother. Do you know her?” replied John.

“Not as well as I’d thought, obviously,” said Sherlock, biting his lip. “Yet in some ways, very well. I –”

“And I didn’t sell my steed.”

“Sorry?”

“On the way back, from the Holy Land. I didn’t sell it. I ate it. Had to.”

“You are one black-hearted scoundrel, beneath that thatch of golden hair,” said Sherlock, his pale face cracking into a death’s-head grin. “I believe you will suit admirably as my assistant.”

“Your assistant.”

“Aye. Come, we must thither. That vomit won’t stay fresh all day.”


	2. A Study in Lincoln Green – Verily, it advanceth

In the cloakroom, Sheriff Lestrade waited impatiently whilst his pages tangled him and themselves up as they swapped his tunic for a bliaut, a nice long one: he was no villein or peasant, thank you very much. The lads wrapped his belt around his middle – he sucked his sheriff-sized stomach in – draped and pinned his cloak just so and dropped his official, great big, fuck-off size chain and seal round his neck. Lovely. Just the job.

Really, that new squire, Don of Van: if Lestrade didn’t know better, he’d swear it was a maid robed as a lad. Maybe seeing the Lady Molly-Anne attired thus one too many times as she trailed like a moon-calf after my Lord Sherlock had jaundiced his view. 

Now, John filled out a cloak well. Mantles usually fastened on the left shoulder, so as not to impede the arm, and were secured by a clasp, which was more ornate the more of a flap-dragon or coxscomb one was. John’s, however, was fastened by a plain wooden button at his neck, like a short riding cape, as John seemingly used both sword arms equally. Lestrade was greatly appreciative of the fact his friend swung both ways. Might come in handy one day. Should the manor ever need defending, for instance. Nothing else, gadzooks!

Although using the devil’s hand… He didn’t like to think there was anything sinister about John, but decided he ought to speak to the friar about it just in case. He tried to make a quick note about it, gave that up as a bad idea, and scratched a daub on the wall of himself on his knees, in front of a great big bald man in a long frock, his face pressed against the cincture, right against the heaving knot, in fact. That should serve to remind him.

Lord Sherlock, on the other hand, had never been known to take any interest in the fairer sex. Or the darker sex, for that matter, Or any kind of sex at all, in all the five years Lestrade had known him. Although, sometimes the sheriff wondered if Sherlock didn’t dance around the village green widdershins (counterclockwise), if you know what he means. But as long as he didn’t scare the horses, no one cared. Bakerstreete was a liberal county town. The beldame Turner next door had wedded ones, forsooth. Casting off his musings, he rejoined his companions at the Hall’s door.

“Let’s go together,” he said.

“I’m not travelling in yon reeve coach. Oh, you mean to take steeds from the stable?” asked Sherlock.

“I…can’t sit a horse. Not since…” John trailed off and walked on a pace, almost falling down the Hall’s unusually large steps. “Damn wide ledge,” he commented, righting himself. 

“It is stupidly ample. I suppose your idol King John has one just like it at Château Gaillard, Sheriff,” sneered Sherlock. 

“No. I mean, I wouldn’t know,” replied Lestrade.

“You mean there’s something you don’t know about King John, the great Softsword himself?”

“Oi! Pack that it. That’s treason, that is. Or libel, or slander, or something.” Lestrade looked ready to cry.

“He hath a woodcut of King John hanging up in his bedchamber,” Sherlock muttered to John.

“No, he hathn’t,” replied John. Sherlock stared and contented himself by whispering “Lackland, Lackland,” quietly, but loudly enough for Lestrade to hear. 

“Let’s get a conveyance,” said Lestrade through gritted teeth. 

“I’m not travelling by litter!” exclaimed Sherlock. “I have the local coach waiting.”

“Where do you live, Lord Sherlock?” asked John, trying to protect himself from the jolting and tipping once they were underway. 

“Sherlock, please,” answered the man. “I consider the entire county to be my home, John. The streets are my mansion, the forest and glades my garden, the greensward itself my bed, the leaves of the forest my blanket, the stars my candles. The very air is my –”

“You mean you’re homeless.” John gave a giggly little laugh. “Seems funny – Sherlock of Holmes, homeless.”

“Sherlock! Is that true? You know I have to be apprised of vagrancy in the shire. What happened to your garret, plague pit though it was?”

“On Monte Ague Street? A difference of opinion with the landlord. A narrow-minded, knotty-pated dogfish who took exception to some of my experiments.”

“God’s blood, Sherlock! Is that the man who denounced you for summoning the devil?”

“I didn’t say the experiments had been all I’d hoped for. But I see now where I may have gone awry.”

“Gone awry? They were about to burn you at the stake, man!”

“As I said, goatish, tickle-brained clack-dishes, one and all. They didn’t even have any sticks of wood. I suppose I should be grateful for your neglect, that the ducking stool is rotted right through.”

They soon came to the town, such as it was, with its bustle of people and pigs in the streets, its modern wooden buildings, even more modern open drain channels, busy craftsmen, pissed-off looking journeymen, and pissed-up looking apprentices (must be another Saint’s day). More texture was provided by the ringing of the church bell, the hissing and clanking from the forge, and the yelling and screaming from the dentist. The coach slowed outside a wattle and daub building with a thatched roof, its painted wooden sign creaking as it swung on its short chains in the breeze. Lestrade looked alarmed. A well-preserved woman far from the first, or even the second flush of youth was leaning on a second-floor windowsill looking out and saw the coach. 

“Yoo-hoo!” she called down. “Sher-iff! You coming in? Got some nice new short blonds in, just how you like ’em, and –”

“No, I’m on official shire business, madam,” called back Lestrade, waggling his chain and seal. He caught the eye of his two companions and added, “thou lewd, licentious drab.” He shook his head. “Driver, why did thou tarry here?”

“I always bring you here,” replied the man.

“Well, drive on!”

“Dame Hudson. She keeps The Doxy and Strumpet,” explained Sherlock. “The Sheriff is a regular. Has a loyalty parchment, or so I’ve heard. Wait, stop!”

The coach lurched to a shuddering halt again, and Sherlock thrust his skinny body through the window hole to scoop up a big handful of dirt from the road. “Drive on!” he ordered and, as the coach rattled past a dark-haired man on the street, flung his mud right at him and ducked down onto the carriage floor to hide. “Ha!” he yelled in triumph as all three turned back to see the man jumping up and down in rage, trying to dislodge the dirt, cursing a blue streak, and looking all round to see whence the missile came.

“Ander’s son,” Sherlock explained to the puzzled John. “Can’t stomach him. No one can.”

Lestrade made a noise of agreement. 

“Sorry, why…” John asked.

“He’s such a… Let’s just say he has a chatelaine but turns the key in the lock himself,” said Sherlock, making a sort of twisting gesture.

“What?”

“He’s fond of dancing around the maypole. Solo,” added Lestrade.

“I’m not –”

“How can I put it. There’s a village washerwoman, but he still rubs his own smalls through,” said Sherlock, this time illustrating his speech with a rubbing motion. Lestrade’s gesture was even more explicit.

“Oh, you think he’s a big wan –”

“Yes,” came the chorus.

“Lestrade, why did you attempt to weave that pathetic moonshine about the people having died of ‘rapture’?” asked Sherlock. “Even you can’t really think those people died of natural causes.”

Lestrade shifted in his seat, brushing against John – just because – and sighed. 

“Look, you have no idea how hard I have it,” he began. John edged himself away with a look of alarm.

“No, my Lord John. I mean my position.”

Sherlock curled his long legs in on themselves. Lestrade rolled his eyes. “You should be so lucky,” he murmured. “I have to think about how things look, the public safety angle, creating revenue, tourism…all that boring shire business you think just happens.”

“Oh, of course.” Sherlock’s eyes, dark grey in the gloom of the carriage, gleamed. “Elections. You’re scared that if Greg’s son –”

“That villainous shag-eared hugger-mugger! He’s been after my job from the word go!” exploded Lestrade. “He only got himself made Town Crier to shame me. He makes up half the news, you know he does, to make me look bad, with his inflated statistics on how many fugitives there are in the town claiming sanctuary, or the number of peasants who’ve been in the town for a year and a day, and can so claim free citizenship.”

“That’s terrible. No one should be allowed to affright the gentle townsfolk like that,” said John.

“And he uses it to feather his own nest! That story about Our Lady appearing to true believers in the Turner’s barn was all a lie! Old man Turner charged idle-headed clots admission, and cut Greg’s son in for half. And it were naught but their prize sow in a blue gown and mantilla.”

“I know,” said Sherlock, angrily.

“And now he’s started giving out just teasers of proclamations, and then asks for money to cry the rest! He’s but a brazen reeling-ripe foot-licker, him and his infotaintment. I’ll give that pox-pitted barker a hue and cry when I catch him in the act.” Lestrade slowed to a stop. So did the coach.

“I’m not going south of the creek, not this time of day,” announced the carter, tipping them out at the edge of town, just by the forest. 

“Scared of being ‘raptured’?” sneered Sherlock, motioning for Lestrade to pay the man. “Come, we must make haste.” He led them at a run through the trees, avoiding the cart tracks and wheel ruts, taking short cuts, leaping from tree to tree, fording the river via a rope hanging from a branch, and waiting a few minutes for Lestrade to roll around in the long grass to dry off. John, who’d kept up admirably, kindly lent the sheriff his cloak. Lestrade just hoped his official sheriff’s gold seal didn’t turn green after its unplanned dunking.

They soon came to the copse and upon several horses and a small gang of people, the sort of scurvy knaves Lestrade couldn’t see without wanting to slap a tax on, then clap them in gaol when thy couldn’t pay, charge them board and lodgings while they were in there, and levy another tariff on them to get out. He’d grown quite creative in his taxation recently – he didn’t like it, but the town coffers didn’t fill themselves. He now levied a toll on people coming into town. He levied a slightly higher one on people coming into town with a full cart. He charged people to get out of town. He charged a slightly higher rate for people to get out of town with an empty cart. He’d been able to order himself a new surcoat after last market day. John would like the look of him in that.

Lestrade grinned, thinking of his lovely new ‘curfew’ scheme. He had the right to fine anyone caught on the street after curfew started, and since no one said he couldn’t arbitrarily change the time it started, change it he did. Every single day. A nice little earner that was proving. Almost as good as his law prohibiting the wearing of masks in the street, and fining those seen wearing them. He’d introduced it in May, when all those mummers were in town for the celebrations. Lestrade was looking forward to Christmas, what with all the Guild parties that would be spilling out onto the streets. Should be able to get John a bloody great big present this year.


	3. A Study in Lincoln Green – Verily, it creeps on a pace

“Sherlock!” called out the most scantling-looking of the louts, the Irregulars. He gestured toward the fire – didn’t the shire have an open fire tax? Lestrade made a mental picture to look it up; imagining himself kneeling before a blaze while his most attractive pages – identical blond twins, from the Low Countries – removed his mantle, tunic and leggings due to the warmth, leaving him in his flouncy bleached linen undershirt. For the nonce. Although with the heat… That should serve to remind him.

“Make yerself at ’ome,” the lad continued. “Pull up a moss tuffet. Room for yer mates, an’ all. Want some grub?”

“Mates? I’m the bloody sheriff!” cried Lestrade.

“I didn’t vote for yer,” replied the lad. “None of us did. Not eligible to vote. Well, can’t write. Or read. Or go into the town, in most cases. Still, you’re welcome to a bowl of stew.”

“That had better not be the king’s deer.” Lestrade cast a suspicious look at the skillet bubbling on the fire.

“’Course not! King’s rabbit, mebbe.” 

Lestrade thought it best to ignore that.

“This is Wiggins,” said Sherlock. “And his gang. You know Sheriff Lestrade, intimately in some cases, I’m not judging, and this is Lord John, a brave, handsome, noble knight recently returned from the Crusades.” 

The group stared in awe at John, and even the obligatory ratty-looking dog stopped yipping and capering about for a minute.

“This is Raz.” Wiggins pointed at a short boy with spiky hair. “This is Soo of Lynne.” This was an exotic beauty. “And this is Glad.” He pulled a buxom blonde to him. “Don’t mind the hound. It’s just Glad’s Tone.”

John sat down for some victuals and ale and a little romp with Tone the pup.

“Where’s the body?” demanded Lestrade, and Sherlock showed him where it lay and had been covered with a makeshift shroud of branches. Just a few ell from where the gang ate, slept and presumably disported. Charming. “Who is he?”

“Dunno. There weren’t nothing in his purse or pouch,” said Wiggins, unblinkingly.

“I’ll wager,” replied Lestrade. “Then there’s not much to go on.”

Sherlock looked at him, a smug gleam in his slanted, catlike eyes. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’d say the murderer was a smallish man, light on his feet, with dark hair and eyes. He speaks in an oddly emphatic way, and he came on a horse which had three old shoes and one new one.”

“Like the bloke we saw fleeing the scene?” asked Glad. 

Sherlock ignored her. “He’ll be back,” he announced.

“What?” exclaimed Lestrade.

“Yer mean to get the brooch he left behind by mistake?” asked Raz, holding it out. Sherlock snatched it and studied it. 

“I need to re-examine the other bodies. What have you done with them?”

“They’ve…been treated with all the obsequies befitting their rank,” answered Lestrade, shiftily.

Sherlock advanced on him. “You mean you threw them into the paupers’ grave.”

“No! I was gonna, don’t get me wrong, but the Guild claimed the stiffs. Each and every one, when they were brought into town.”

“Which Guild? No wait, don’t tell me, let me deduct,” said Sherlock, zooming back to the body.

“Shouldn’t that be deduce?” called John, pushing aside the saucy wench on his lap to look over at Sherlock. 

Sherlock ignored him. “Not Masons; still got all his fingers. And his privy parts haven’t been shaved. Not a tanner – no staining on his hands. Plus he doesn’t smell like offal. Well, no more than this lot do. Not a baker – too slim. 

“They are a right tubby Guild,” Wiggins agreed.

“I didn’t say trade Guild,” called Lestrade, winking at the motley crew around him, playing to the crowd. “Could be a merchant Guild.” He helped himself to stew. 

“Is it?” Sherlock was thrumming with tension, leaping up and down on the spot like a Morris Dancer at Candlemass.

“Nah. Trade,” answered Lestrade, copping his own lapful of wanton peasant. He basked in the troupe’s sniggers.

“Arrgh! Well, not a painter; no flecks under his nails. And he looks a punctual sort who’d turn up when he said he would. Not a candle maker – still got eyebrows. And eyelashes.”

Raz took up a goat’s horn with holes in it to play a breathy but stirring tune to accompany him.

“Cloth maker!” John called over. 

“No; his arm span is too short. The looms are as wide as the distance between a person's arms when throwing the shuttle. This short arse could only work on kids’ clothes. He’d have starved. Ooh – carpenter! No, that’s not quite right, although there are signs of working with wood. Oh! I hate Guilds!”

“Why?’” asked John.

“All that fraternity in the twin pursuits of piety and profit, combining spiritual and occupational work, claiming each improves the other, that they’re two sides of the same coin. Hypocrites! Plus the liveries are always unflattering.”

“As an alchemist, do you even have a Guild?” asked John. The music stopped, abruptly.

“He applied to the apothecaries. But they wouldn’t have him,” whispered Lestrade.

“They don’t recognize my superior and freelance status, the gleeking folly-fallen hempseeds.” Sherlock came over to them. “Incidentally, John, if thou art to be my bodyguard, thou should be aware there might be –”

“Will be.”

“Thank you, Sheriff, several large, pissed-off elders from that Guild after me from time to time. In add to my usual and any new enemies.” He favoured John with a strained-looking grimace, his best attempt at a smile.

“By ‘elders’ he means great big –”

“Bodyguard?” John broke in, on a puzzled note.

“Someone has to look after him. We can only do so much.” This from Wiggins, as Raz, and the assorted cutthroats and rascals murmured in agreement. “He does tend to get people wanting to turn him into a toad. Or slit his gizzards open.”

“He…hath no kin?” asked John. There was a loud silence.

“Not as such, no.” Lestrade decided he’d better take that one.

“I’m right here!” Sherlock jumped up and down on the spot a bit more, then went back to the deceased.

The pastoral idyll continued for a few moments longer, the snuffling of the horses, the rootling of the pigs, the rustling of the leaves, the murmur of the brook.

“PATTERN MAKER!” came an unholy yell. “Makers of wooden clog-style footwear! Ha!”

“Pattern maker? They’re not doing too much at the moment, are they? I mean it’s all leather nowadays.” Lestrade stretched out a foot to show off his tanned leather shoe with its raw linen thread and leather lace thronging.

“For you lot, mebbe. Us simple folk, also known as the poor, go with the sackcloth and straw – for townies – or leaf and grass for country dwellers.” Raz extended a foresty-looking foot. “Check out the oak and rushes ensemble I’ve got going on.”

“Doesn’t matter, a change in fashion and lack of demand for your product, does it, if you’re in a Guild. They look after their own, payments, provisions, etc. They provided the burials, you said?” John asked Lestrade.

“But what if your product is becoming obsolete?” said Sherlock in barely a whisper, approaching the group, turning the ornate pin clasp over in his fingers. They stared at him. No one knew what obsolete meant. “As is your entire raison d'être?”

“Hey, that’s just not fair!” burst out Lestrade. “I’ve never been good at Norman French!” 

“This man wore no wedding ring.” 

“Surprised he still had vestments.” Lestrade indicated the light-fingered Irregulars around him.

“Nah, we didn’t rob no ring.”

Sherlock was focusing on the Sheriff, who was a bit scared by that. “Were the other bodies also unmarried men, of advanced years, like this one?”

“By Sainte Loy, that’s right! All in their forties. From different towns and cities, though.”

“Hmm.”

“Hie there, Sherlock! Where are you going?” John called after the departing figure.

“Just…to get a bit of air,” came the trailing-off reply.

“We’re outside!” called the Sheriff, shaking his head at how barmy young Lord Sherlock was. “He does this, John. Don’t fret.”

For John was on his feet, trying to spy Sherlock’s path and failing due to the tall cyperaceae in the way. “Damn high sedge,” he remarked.


	4. A Study in Lincoln Green - Verily, the end is nigh

Sherlock grabbed one of the gang’s horses, swung himself up, and trotted off, following the trail of hoof prints showing that three of the horse’s hooves had been old and one new. He followed the tracks until they came to a halt, not far away, just in the thicket. He dismounted and addressed the waiting figure.

“Here’s your brooch. Now you won’t have to go back for it.” He held it out.

“What makes you think that’s MINE, good sir?” asked the man, a slight lilt and a very odd cast in his voice.

“Oh, pur-lease. You’re working for the Grandmaster of the pattern makers Guild. The Guild started in the Emerald Isle – the Grandmaster is always Irish. This is a penannular or Celtic brooch, wherein the pin is stabbed through the folds –”

“All right! I KNOW what it is. God’s truth! Could be any passing paddy dropped it. Next to a dead body. Which he just happened to stumble upon. And then flee from, yeah?”

“No; it incorporates elements from their insignia. I’ve made a study of such things.”

“Oh, I’m that impressed. NOT!” The man came gradually nearer. He was young looking, dark-haired, with a mocking mien. And a mincing gait. And plucked eyebrows. In truth, he looked the sort more likely to be chosen as the Queen of the May than the Green Man at the Spring crowning.

“I caught you at prayer,” remarked Sherlock, pointing at the improvised prie-dieu. “Do you believe you’re doing the Lord’s work for the Grandmaster, killing those Guild members who are about to retire, sparing them a pauper’s old age, as the poverty-stricken yet too proud to admit it Guild can no longer afford to care for them in their twilight years?”

“Yeah, a bit,” answered the man. “And I’m also in it for the MONEY.”

The two were circling each other now. 

“You lure them here, how? Tell them it’s a big retirement celebration or presentation? Then kill them? And why here, in this shire?”

“You jesting me? It’s PERFECT murder territory here. The reeve covers up any unexpected death in the shire; he’s so scared of ANY negative publicity. Never even appointed a coroner. According to him, there’s been no crime here since he took over! Except for that littering spree at Lamas and that spate of knock-door-running around last Samhain. And no, that wasn’t me.”

“So the deaths would be given as being of natural causes, and the Guild wouldn’t have to make a payout to the next of kin or support the widow and children in the man’s absence, the guild members all being bachelors. That’s quite…clever.” The two shared a grin. “But evil. And seeing as you’re the master architect, I’m surprised to see you doing the deed, getting your hands dirty.”

“Yeah, well. You can’t get the SERFS these days. So I’ll have to kill YOU myself too. Even though I don’t even know your name. Sorry, and all that.”

“How?”

“Hurt yourself?”

“I said how. As in how do you plan to kill me?”

“Oh, I thought I’d go with the DAGGER.” He brandished it. “Classic. Never goes out of style. Always a good choice.” And the man lunged at him. Sherlock sidestepped and slipped on a loose rock. As he floundered, the murderous man keened, a high paean of joy accompanying his charge. His attack might have proved deadly, but a heavy stone flew through the air and with a dull whump hit the would-be killer square on the head, felling him where he stood. Sherlock whipped around, openmouthed.

“John?”

John slid off his borrowed horse, blowing on his hand. 

“You can ride? I thought… And you can use a…slingshot? Like a…silent assassin?”

John, short, square, uncompromising, smiled. “Seems my leg got better, dashing about after you, my Lord Sherlock. And I, well, I wasn’t always a noble knight hospitaller. I had a…life before I enlisted. And…during.”

“Well, well.” 

The two were still grinning like drunken apprentices on Twelfth Night when Lestrade and the others arrived. They had time for a bite to eat and a swig of ale while the cleanup was dealt with and the miscreant dragged to the stocks – cheaper than employing a gaoler – pending trial and Lestrade yelled at Sherlock for putting himself in danger. Again. Still, he gave Sherlock and John a lift back to town.

John drew the long straw to be the first to pelt the prisoner with missiles on the morrow. Sherlock had the feeling they’d not heard the last of the criminally minded young Irishman, whose name they were unable to get due to him being unconscious, and then because he gave the Sheriff’s men the slip on the way.


	5. A Study in Lincoln Green – Verily, the epilogue is nigh

“Well, I’d best hie me hence. I have to find lodgings, seeing as the good reeve of this shire liketh not me held fast in the bosom of Mother Nature,” said Sherlock.

“Sleeping rough? No I don’t, sirrah,” answered Sheriff Lestrade.

“You know, that’s making me think about my situation,” said John. “I should really get my own place. I’ve trespassed on your kindness long enough, old friend.”

“Wait. Methinks I hath a notion that might suit,” replied Lestrade, with all haste, ignoring Sherlock’s, “you? thinks?” jibes. “You two need a dwelling, and the manor Gatehouse is empty. ’Tis large, and spacious, as men of your rank would demand. The manor and the shire need more protection, it seems, and Lord Sherlock, thou needs protecting too. From thyself. I think the two of you would fit the task, and John has shown himself befitting of that charge.”

The two simply stared at him. “And while I’m not saying I’m thy liege lord and thou my vassals – although a little homage wouldn’t cometh amiss, Lord Sherlock – I WON’T be thy cook and bottle washer. No raiding the larder or the cellars when neither of thee has been to market. I’m serious!” 

Just then a voice rang out in the silent street.

“Hear ye, hear ye, Good King John, sovereign by the grace of God, is –” The voice broke off, tantalisingly.

“Greg’s son!” Lestrade shook his fist and ran after him. The clang pip, clang pip of the bell and the jingle jangle of the heavy gold chain and seal indicated both were going like the clappers.

“He’s broken curfew! You can fine him!” called John.

“If he can catch him,” countered Sherlock.

Left alone in the silence of the curfew-ridden evening street, the pair looked at each other. 

“So, abode-mates? Well, potential abode-mates should know the worst about each other. I play the lute when I’m thinking,” Sherlock began.

“I play the virginals,” replied John.

“Yeah, but you’re fooling no one, Blondie,” said Sherlock, with a grin. Then, “Clemmed?”

“Starving.” John looked around the deserted square. “Where’s open, this late?”

“There’s always comestibles and grog in the manor pantry,” replied Sherlock, waving a dismissive hand.

“But the manor will be shut up for the night too, the household in bed.”

“It’s open to me. I can always knock up Lady Molly-Anne.”

“I’d be careful about that, if I were you. You don’t want to find yourself having to marry the whey-faced chit.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just a word to the wise. I picked up a few tips and tricks in the Holy Land to avoid that kind of thing. I’ll sort you out.” John tapped his forefinger against the side of his nose and winked one eye.

“Hast thou an ague? And John, I knoweth not what you mean. And ’tis most refreshing for me. Come. Let us wend our steps homeward.”

And so they had a nice slow-mo walk in the moonlight, cloaks billowing behind them. John resigned himself to plenty of that, in his new life, and also to being Lord Sherlock’s and Sheriff Lestrade’s bitch whenever they demanded. Which seemed likely to be often.


End file.
